


Variation

by orphan_account



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Arthur Finds Out, Arthur's basically just an awesome older brother/mentor figure for the first few years, Brotherhood, Brotherly Affection, Discipline, Kid Fic, Kid Merlin, M/M, Master/Servant, Mentor/Protégé, No Underage Sex, Non-Sexual Spanking, Protective Arthur, Slow Build, Spanking, Strapping
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-22
Updated: 2015-02-22
Packaged: 2018-03-14 12:03:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3409865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur Pendragon finds the predictable monotony of his everyday life quite thoroughly interrupted when he's tasked with supervising the training of a young, short-tempered manservant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Variation

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on Livejournal as an ongoing WIP, I've now decided to re-write and improve that previous story. It was written in response to a request for slow-build Arthur/Merlin with a significant age difference, with separate requests for mentor!Arthur and older-brother!Arthur and young Merlin getting himself into mischief.
> 
> Early warning for scenes of non-consensual spanking (era appropriate master/servant discipline), but no relationship non-con. There's a hell of a lot of fluff. And lots of Arthur/knights bonding, with Merlin endearing himself to everyone, as usual.
> 
> Although it will eventually become Merthur, there's no sexual content until Merlin is of an appropriate age. That'll not be for several chapters.

 

"Father, you can't be serious."

Uther glances up from the edict he's been amending, eyebrow arched. "The matter isn't up for discussion, Arthur. Gaius has been unfailingly loyal to the Pendragon bloodline for many years; we can certainly grant him this one favour, small as it is."

The young prince, still clad in his armour from the training fields, throws his hands up in frustration. "But why me? Surely there must be someone else more suited to the task. Leon, perhaps? He loves children, and he's been looking for a young squire to-"

"Enough, Arthur," his father interrupts firmly, returning his attention to the parchment before him, quill scratching on the yellowed paper. "Your days of youthful frivolity are waning, and you stand now on the cusp of manhood. It's high time you shouldered a little more responsibility. Leon tells me that he and the instructors are satisfied with your combat training; it won't be long before you take up the mantle of Crown Prince and begin leading the knights out on patrol. Consider this task a preliminary test of your patience and skill."

"But...but _father,_ " he protests, slightly desperate. "He's a  _child."_

"Indeed. And rather a handful, too, from what Gaius tells me." Uther glances up from the edict again, the corners of his eyes crinkling in amusement. "I realise that you'll be treading on unfamiliar ground here, but I'm sure training the lad to perform the duties of a manservant won't be entirely beyond your ken?

Arthur grits his teeth at what's obviously a direct challenge. His father, damn him, knew just how to gain his compliance. As a young man of eighteen, at the height of physical strength but maintaining the energy of his youth, Arthur has never been able to say 'no' to a dare. His pride won't allow it. And even though he knows next to  _nothing_ about how to raise children, he finds himself nodding in acceptance, back straightening as he shoulders the new responsibility.

"Very well," he says, and is relieved that the uncertainty he's feeling doesn't reveal itself in his tone. "I'll train the boy."

"Excellent." Uther graces him with a rare smile, quiet and approving. "I'll send word to Gaius."

 

 

. . .

 

 

Merlin is a pale, scrawny lad with only twelve summers to his name.

He's remarkably short for his age, with a mop of mussed raven hair and the greenest eyes Arthur has ever seen. He's all fumbling fingers and knobbly knees that first morning, nervous and uncertain about every step, and Arthur quickly realises (after Merlin bursts into tears and flees back to Gaius's chambers) that approaching the boy's training with the same stern detachment as his own combat instructors will likely prove to be ineffective in the long run. Clearly shouting at the lad is getting him nowhere. 

"I think perhaps we started off on the wrong foot," Arthur says in a gentler tone once he's managed to coax the boy out of the physician's rooms. Merlin's got a smudge of dirt on his cheek and his eyes are still red from crying, and quite suddenly the prince feels like a tyrant for his earlier outburst. 

"I'm sorry I broke your vase, Sire," the boy mumbles into his boots, shoulders hunched like he's expecting to be yelled at again for his clumsiness.

"It can be replaced easily enough," Arthur reassures calmly, and claps the lad on the shoulder, the corner of his mouth twitching. "To tell you the truth, I never liked that ugly old thing anyway."

Merlin glances up at him tentatively, and at the prince's expression, manages a shy little smile of his own. It's downright adorable, and Arthur can't quite believe that he'd  _ever_ managed to shout at the boy. 

"There we are," he remarks, and squeezes Merlin's scrawny shoulder. "That's more like it." The prince throws a companionable arm around the lad and leads him away down the corridor, back towards his chambers. "Come on; the knights will be assembling for swordplay and combat training shortly. As a manservant, your role will be similar to that of a squire, so you'll need to be well-versed in the proper care and handling of a knight's weapons. What can you tell me about the short-sword?"

 

 

. . . 

 

 

After a few false starts, they fall into comfortable sort of routine.

Once Merlin realises that Arthur isn't going to criticise his every move, the tension in his wiry form eases considerably, and the nervous energy transitions into a cheerful sort of enthusiasm for any and every task assigned to him. Arthur had never seen anyone so _keen_  to polish his armour before.

"It's as clear as a looking-glass," the boy enthuses, running his rag over the shoulder plating somewhat reverently. "The rain and mud dulls its shine, but if you rub hard enough, it's good as new."

Arthur nods at him approvingly, and pauses en route to his writing desk to gently squeeze the back of Merlin's neck. The smile he gets in return is bright and eager and  _happy_ (three words he's quickly learning to associate with Merlin at any given time), and it stirs a fond sort of warmth in his chest. His initial reservations about being able to raise the lad properly are no longer weighing on his mind; the boy's training is coming along well, and Merlin seems content with his new responsibilities as the prince's manservant.  

And Arthur has to admit, grudgingly, two weeks after he's taken the lad under his wing, that he's rather enjoying the novelty of being in the company of someone who genuinely wants to please him; not in the show-offish manner that many of the young knights-in-training have adopted, but in a quiet, eager way that feels dangerously close to real affection. Arthur's fairly sure he ought to discourage this sense of familiarity that's come between them - he is a  _prince,_ after all, and he's always been taught (by various high-born tutors and men of noble birth) to maintain strict boundaries between himself and the palace staff to ensure that they will see him as an authority figure and not as an equal. But he finds himself unwilling to force that level of formality into this unique relationship he's formed with the lad. Merlin's still just a boy; there'll be time yet to withdraw into their respective roles as master and manservant. For now, Arthur is content to watch the boy flourish beneath his tutelage. 

Unfortunately, this short period of serenity doesn't last forever.

Arthur had discovered, right at the beginning the lad's training, that in spite of his quiet and gentle nature, Merlin is a rather opinionated lad. He keeps it to himself, certainly, and tends to communicate most of his less-than-appreciated sentiments through scathing looks and sour expressions when the court nobles aren't looking.

Narrow-eyed looks are innocent enough, comparatively speaking, so Arthur rarely feels compelled to chastise him for them (usually because he wholeheartedly agrees with the boy's assessment of the individual in question), although often a raised eyebrow in Merlin's direction during open Court will be enough to keep him from being to obvious about it.

But then the boy has to go and open his mouth.

Arthur isn't there to witness the incident in person; something he truly regrets (because according to his knights, it had all been rather spectacular). Instead he's busy attending a strategy meeting with his father and the Court advisers regarding the distribution of guards along the upper battlements, and in doing so has left his young charge to his own devices (which, upon reflection, may have been a foolish decision). A sudden knock on the throne room doors interrupts him mid-sentence.

"Enter," his father calls.

Arthur certainly hadn't expected to see Leon on the other side, looking grim-faced and weary, with a hand resting on Merlin's shoulder. The boy's staring resolutely at his boots, his bottom lip stuck out in a scowling pout, a smudge of dirt on his nose where he's rubbed it absently in his usual nervous gesture. 

"My king," Leon greets, inclining his head respectfully towards Uther, before glancing at Athur. "Forgive the interruption, but might I have a word, Sire?"

Arthur is studying Merlin's slumped, dejected posture with both curiosity and concern, although he notes somewhat disapprovingly that the boy has failed to greet the king appropriately, as he's been taught. The prince feels his brow crease a little, but schools the expression quickly and glances sideways at his father.

Uther, if anything, looks quietly amused as he reaches across to pat Arthur on the back. "It seems you have more pressing matters to attend to."

Indeed he does.

Leon's explanation of the incident is brief and concise, but the man doesn't mince his words, and Arthur gains quite a colourful picture of what has transpired on the training fields during his brief absence. He waits until he and Merlin are alone in his chambers, the knight's footsteps fading off down the corridor, before turning to fix his young charge with a stern frown.

"You called him a  _what_?"

Merlin's throat moves visibly as he swallows, the boy fidgeting on the spot and fiddling with his sleeves, eyes downcast. "A..a pompous ass, Sire."

"Dear gods above." Arthur pinches the bridge of his nose and drops down on the edge of his bed with a harsh, frustrated exhale. "Sir Barret is a visiting nobleman, Merlin. An honoured guest in my father's halls. What in  _hell's name_  possessed you to insult him?"

The lad mumbles something into his boots.

"The _floor_ is not talking to you, Merlin. I am." That brings the boy's eyes up again. Good. No, gods above, not-good. Merlin looks near tears, which makes it almost physically painful to maintain his current tone of stern authority. "Now, I asked you a question. You will speak clearly when you answer me."

Merlin swallows again, a muscle in his jaw twitching. "He insulted you," he boy replies, in a uneven sort of voice. "He said you weren't half the knight your father claimed you were. And when I told him it wasn't true, he said that a simple-minded runt like me wouldn't even have the brains to make that distinction."

Arthur knows how much that comment would have hurt his quick, clever-minded manservant. Merlin may not be of noble blood, but he's certainly no simpleton, and it's clear he's received schooling of some sort in the past (whether from Gaius or from his mother before he was sent to Camelot, Arthur doesn't know), and it often frustrates the boy when those of higher birth assume that he knows nothing of any significance.

But even so, to have insulted the son of a noble lord over such a comment is taking things too far. At the end of the day, Merlin is a  _manservant._ And whether he likes it or not, in the eyes of the high-born class, the boy has his place. 

"An untrue assessment," Arthur acknowledges fairly, but maintains his firm tone. "But instead of walking away or remaining silent, you chose to say...?"

"That I was competent enough to make the distinction between a valiant knight and a pompous ass," Merlin finishes hesitantly, his gaze darting away again even as he keeps his chin up. "And...and that I doubted he was the former." The boy's eyes narrow a little. "He deserved every word."

And there it is- that steely, stubborn set to Merlin's jaw - indicating the boy clearly feels righteous in his defence of the prince. Secretly, a part of Arthur is pleased at such a display of loyalty, but the more reasonable voice in his head reminds him that other servants would have earned themselves a sound whipping for far less. He's suddenly extremely grateful for Leon's timely intervention; judging by what the knight had said, their noble guest had been downright livid that he wouldn't be granted the satisfaction of punishing the boy himself. And Arthur knows full well that the man wouldn't have been lenient; he wouldn't have taken Merlin's tender age or gentle nature or skinny, fragile stature into account.

Visions of the boy, bruised and bloodied, flash before his eyes without warning, and he grits his teeth against that unwanted surge of fear. Instead he holds out a hand towards the lad, steeling himself for the duty that lies before him.

"Come here, Merlin."

The lad blinks, glancing between Arthur's face and the outstretched hand, suddenly looking unsure. "Sire?"

The prince arches an eyebrow. "I dislike repeating myself."

The endearing clumsiness returns to his gait as Merlin stumbles over to the bedside, eyes wide and fearful. Arthur gently grips a skinny forearm in each hand, holding the lad still in front of him between his parted knees.

"What you did today was _beyond_ foolish," he says grimly. "Do you have any idea what would have happened to you if Leon hadn't been there to intervene? You insulted a nobleman, a guest of this house, and by our laws it would have been his right to discipline you as he saw fit. He would've _beaten_ you, Merlin. Do you understand that?"

"I...I didn't-," Merlin stutters shakily, paling at the words. "I didn't think-"

"No, you  _didn't_  think," Arthur agrees, his tone stern. "And I know you're perfectly capable of making sound decisions, so there's no excuse for it. I can't even begin to tell you how disappointed I am."

The boy's face crumples, and Arthur can't stand to look at him for another moment, so instead he tugs the boy to his side and turns him swiftly over his knees. Merlin gives a choked-off sort of cry, clearly surprised to find himself upended so abruptly, and Arthur takes advantage of his temporary state of shocked inertia to tug the boy's breeches and undergarments down to mid-thigh, baring his pale hind quarters to the cool air of the bedchamber.

Any other man would have taken a strap to their manservant for such grave disobedience, but Merlin is still a child, and a frail one at that. Arthur remembers his own father giving him a sound thrashing at that age, right here in this very room, after he'd been caught trying to sneak out of the castle after dark in a foolish quest to hunt down dragons. His father had made it abundantly clear that such behaviour would not be tolerated, and Arthur vividly recalls how readily he'd promised to obey the rules thereafter as he'd howled his sorrows into the wood of his writing desk. But the whipping, whilst certainly an effective deterrent, had left horrible red welts in his buttocks and thighs that had bruised over the next few days, making sitting a woefully uncomfortable ordeal. Arthur was reluctant to prolong his manservant's suffering in such a manner, regardless of his crimes.

Besides, after a dozen or so firm swats, it becomes abundantly clear that his hand will prove to be sufficient. Merlin, his loyal and stubborn-willed bratling, had lasted all of six strokes before surrendering to his tears, legs flailing in feeble little kicks that fail to dislodge him in his position over Arthur's lap, the prince's arm looped securely around the lad's waist to keep him fastened in close. In his defence, Arthur isn't holding anything back. He may not be using a belt or a switch, but his sword-hand is hard as steel and he can pack a fair amount of strength into each swing; he'd be more concerned if the boy _wasn't_ crying. Although the quiet sniffles are truly heart-wrenching, and the ache in Arthur's chest far outweighs the hot stinging of his palm. 

He had initially settled on a good two-dozen strokes, but finds himself stopping at twenty, his hand raised to deliver another swat. Merlin is fisting Arthur's blankets in both hands, head buried in his arms to muffle his sobs, shoulders heaving with each shaky breath. The pale bottom before him is flushed a bright, even pink, and the lad has even stopped kicking, slumped across Arthur's lap as though he's resigned himself his place there. Merlin is the picture of dejected misery, and so far from Arthur's eager, smiling lad that the prince simply can't bring himself to deliver the next blow. Instead he tugs up the dark breeches, clothing the punished backside, and loosens his hold on the lad's waist to rub his back soothingly.

"It's done," he says, his voice low and tinged with warmth. "It's over; all's forgiven."

To his surprise, this seems to make the boy cry harder. Momentarily stumped, Arthur frowns down worriedly at the sobbing child. "Merlin?"

The lad lifts his head from his the crook of his arm, sucks in a hitching breath, and blurts, "Sorry! Don't hate me, I won't do it again!"

Before Arthur's brain can even fully register what his body is doing, he's pulling the sobbing lad into his arms, tucking the boy's head under his chin and holding him close in a tight embrace.

"Hush now," he murmurs. "Did I not say you were forgiven? I'm a man of my word. The matter is already behind us. Although," he pulls back a little, and tips Merlin's quivering chin up so that their eyes meet, "you will apologise to Sir Barret for your ill-chosen remarks, and to my father for insulting a guest of this house."

Merlin's eyes brim with fresh tears, but he nods obediently. "Yes, Sire."

The poor moppet isn't half a sight, with his eyes red-rimmed and his cheeks flushed and wet with tears. Arthur fishes a handkerchief from his pocket and wipes away the mess, feeling a tender sort of warmth in his chest when Merlin burrows into his shoulder again the moment he's finished. Acknowledging the boy's need for comfort, Arthur allows it. Merlin is still a child, after all. He knows there'll come a time, likely sooner than he'd prefer, when he'll need to take a belt to his manservant and then walk away afterwards with little more than a pat to the shoulder, as he's seen other knights do to their squires. But that moment has yet to arrive.

And it needn't come for some time, he deems.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you liked the first chapter! Let me know if you have any requests. :)
> 
> \- Lula xxx


End file.
